Cold Silver
by Roxy Parkington
Summary: Once upon a time, in an era that he wished the world could grasp again, he had been on top of the world... An exploration into how Cal killed himself and the reasons behind his suicide. [Winner of Best Sequel for November 2005 at Anne's Story Page]


Cold Silver

"He married, of course, and inherited his millions, but the crash of '29 hit his interests hard, and he put a pistol in his mouth that year. Or so I read."

-Rose Dawson Calvert

The house was quiet today; his wife had gone out shopping with what little money they had left. Once upon a time, in an era that he wished the world could grasp again, he had been on top of the world. Handsome, rich, and engaged to a beautiful girl, Caledon Hockley's gilded cage could not be shattered.

Until a man by the name of Jack Dawson shook the bars of that cage and shattered it, like Sampson in the old Bible story Cal loved as a child. Rose, his fiancée, fell in love with that penniless artist, and what she saw in him Cal could only guess. Rose died for Dawson when _Titanic_ foundered, and in retrospect Cal had to admit he was rough with Rose. Abigail, his second wife, was a sweet girl bred in a rich family; she, too, was not used to the fact that they had lost most of their fortune. She had given him a boy, a fine baby worth carrying the Hockley name; that much she was good for.

Wait, why was he thinking of all things that _had_ happened when he should be thinking about things that _were_? Seventeen years ago Dawson had shaken his gilded cage; now it was getting shaken, very hard, by the stock market crash of 1929. At least he and Abigail still held claim to their beautiful mansion, but there was no doubt he was broken. He moved quietly up the stairs to peek in at Robert, sleeping in his crib, and kissed his son. "A fine boy, a fine boy," Nathan Hockley had chortled when he held his grandson for the first time. Looking at Robert now, Cal knew there could be no doubt of that.

Cal closed the door softly on his way out of Robert's nursery; his son did not deserve to witness this. How could he be a good father when he had lost the one element in his life he so desired? Cal could feel his muscles tense, a mix of fear, adrenaline, pain, and suspense pulsing in his veins. He began to visibly shake, knowing that he was at the end of his rope and that this was the only thing he knew to do.

Still silent and swift, Cal marched into the study downstairs, his mahogany desk illuminated by a single lamp. _Stationary, stationary, I need stationary, damn it!_ he thought, searching the drawers of his desk in a frenzy. Finally he found a spare sheet, a piece adorned with **Caledon M. Hockley **as the letterhead. "Quite fitting for one about to die a respectable death," he smirked before writing the following to Abigail.

_October 3, 1929_

_Dearest Abigail,_

_If you have found this letter, my blood is staining the carpet upstairs and I am already dead. I have failed you, my father, my son, and anyone else that has the…pleasure of knowing me. I leave you the house and Robert, but little else. Amusing, isn't it, that my last will and testament is only a single sentence while others spend lifetimes writing theirs? I died a gentlemen and I want to be buried as one. Burn everything I own, as it will be of little use to you._

_I love you; what I am about to undertake is for the good of us all._

_-Cal_

There, he was satisfied; at least he had done something right in his last hours on Earth. He put the pen next to the finished note and opened another drawer. His prized pistol, a present for his eighteenth birthday, lay there in its black case with velvet lining. Cal stroked it with a slight hunger, then carried it out of the study and back upstairs with him. Simultaneously, the clock chimed and Robert let out a wail from the nursery. Cal ignored his son's plaintive cry; Abigail could take care of him when she returned.

He shed his current suit for one that reminded him of that once upon a time the world would never grasp. Cal hadn't worn that suit since the dinner aboard _Titanic _on April 12, 1912, but now it seemed entirely appropriate. He was shaking no more because he finally was at peace with himself.

The front door was being opened downstairs; this had to be done as quickly as possible. It also had to be a clean death as possible. Cal darted into the bedroom, shut the door, and gently slid the pistol in his mouth. Thank God it had only one bullet left. His tongue tasted cold, silver metal before he pulled the trigger with a trembling hand and a gunshot rang through the house. He fell to the floor with a thump, blood flowing in small rivers onto the white carpet. Abigail heard the thump and Robert's crying, quickly ascending the stairs.

Cal Hockley died a broken man in the early October twilight, not in cold, suicidal blood…but in cold silver.


End file.
